


Seabird

by 64K



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, I really like giving Clive lots of friends and family, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:54:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25043482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/64K/pseuds/64K
Summary: The world seems to have crashed down on the Tritons all at once. One dear friend is no longer with them, and another is at death’s door in a hospital in London, far from their home in Misthallery. That, combined with the stresses of an archeology doctorate and a baby on the way, makes thinking of the future… overwhelming, to put it lightly.All they can do is take things one step at a time. The young boy with tired eyes who wanders the hospital halls seems like he needs a friend; perhaps that’s the first step they need to take.
Relationships: Brenda Triton & Clive, Brenda Triton/Clark Triton, Clark Triton & Clive, Clive & Constance Dove, Clive & Hershel Layton
Comments: 20
Kudos: 19





	1. No chance to say goodbye (only "nice to meet you")

"I'm worried, Brenda."

Clark stares vacantly through Hershel's prone form. Slowly, so she won't startle him, Brenda lets her hand rest on his shoulder. "I know."

"I feel... awful." Clark covers his eyes with his hand, his voice shaking. "To think that, all this time…"

"I know," Brenda says again. She's at a loss for words, but it's hard to know what else to say, when her best friend is dead, and his best friend is at death's door. "We should have tried to stay in better contact."

"I'm an awful friend." Clark's breathing speeds up. "I was only thinking about myself. I should have been here for him. I should have—"

"Deep breaths, Clark." Brenda rubs his hair softly, a desperate attempt to calm both herself and her husband. "We made a mistake. But we're here now. We'll be here for him when he wakes up."

"I know." Clark lets his face fall into his hands. A choked _something_ —Brenda can't tell whether it's a chuckle and a sob—escapes him. "I'd better shut up now before I say something incredibly stupid."

Brenda's mind races, trying to think of something, anything, to say to calm him down. She can't let him panic; not when she's so close to panicking herself. "I'm hungry," she hears herself say. She's not. She's nauseous, and anxious, and guilty. But maybe Clark is hungry, and, possibly, she'd feel better if she ate something. "I'm going to get something. Do you want anything?"

Clark is silent for a moment too long. Then he blinks, nodding. "I'd rather not leave Hershel, but if you'd get me some coffee, I'd like that."

Despite her dark mood, Brenda has to fight to stifle a giggle. Clark would drink a whole pot if she'd let him, and get himself even more wired up. "You need to _relax,_ Clark, not become even more fidgety."

"Coffee helps me relax, Brenda," Clark sniffs, mock-offended. Then he grins, the smile almost reaching his eyes, and Brenda grins back. It makes her feel better to see him smile. "Now, go on; get me my coffee."

"As you wish, dearest." Brenda winks, turning on her heel and heading down the long white hall.

Her grin fades more the farther she walks from Hershel's room. Without the pressing need to keep Clark from spiralling, the harder it is to keep up the smiling facade.

She'd wanted the chance to clear her mind, but now, she almost wishes she was still in the room. At least she has Clark to comfort in there, to keep her mind occupied. And yet, she doesn't want to go back in. Every time she sees Hershel lying there, bruised and broken, she thinks of how Claire must have looked, right before she died.

Brenda and Claire had met in astronomy class, years ago, during undergrad. That year had been during Brenda's "Mars terraforming" phase, before she'd decided, sensibly, to settle for examining rocks from Planet Earth instead. During a group project, Brenda had been paired with somebody as idealistic as she was—Claire Foley, a physics major who dreamed of surpassing the speed of light and mastering the fourth dimension: Time.

They'd been best friends ever since. Whenever one of them lost their head in the clouds, the other would be there to pull them down. Whenever Brenda needed someone to practice costume design on, Claire was ready and willing. Whenever Claire needed a no-nonsense editor for one of her journal articles, Brenda was on the case.

Without Claire, Brenda would never have had the courage to switch over from her general arts degree into geology. Without Claire, she would never have met Hershel, or, later, Clark.

And now Claire was dead.

She'd been dead for three months, and Brenda had only just found out.

The requirements for Clark's archeology doctorate included a placement at a dig site. Misthallery, a small town up north, showed great promise, and she and Clark had moved there for a six-month expedition. The village was remote; there was hardly any electricity up there, let alone television or phone access. Brenda and Clark had hardly minded, though; there was so much to discover in the dig site, and the town was wild and charming. The months had flown by, each day full of new discoveries.

It wasn't until Hershel's mother drove to Misthallery to ask for support that they found out that Hershel had been assaulted. It wasn't until they saw Claire's absence and asked where she was that they found out she was dead.

Nausea hits Brenda like a tidal wave.

Thank goodness for the chairs scattered throughout the hospital halls. She falls into one, trying to catch her breath.

She's awful, isn't she? Between her and Clark, she's always been the strong one. When he cried during exam period, she'd be the one to get him some tea, help him make flash cards, and to remind him that he'd gone to every class, that he'd turned in every assignment, that he'd be fine. When he'd fall into one of his negative spirals, she'd always be there to pull him out.

She can't cry. She can't make a scene. She doesn't like negativity, or feeling overwhelmed, or irrational.

But she's worried about Hershel, and she misses Claire, and she doesn't know what else to do.

"Do you need help, miss?"

A soft voice makes Brenda look up from above her clasped hands. A young boy—maybe ten years old—stands before her. His face is pale, and his eyes are tired and concerned. "Should I call somebody?"

Brenda blinks, trying to puzzle out who he is, until she notices the admittance bracelet around his wrist. A patient. She can't ask someone so young and vulnerable for help. But then again… "If you'd get me some water, I'd appreciate it," she says, forcing her voice to be as steady as possible.

"Of course." He walks away, slowly and stiffly, like every step is painful. Within five minutes, he's back, a glass in his hand. "My apologies for taking so long."

"Don't apologize," Brenda scolds. The presence of another person nearby is already enough to return some of her spirits. "You did me a favour."

The boy hums noncommittally, sitting down beside her. Brenda watches him over the rim of her glass. He sits like an adult, one ankle resting on the other knee, his arms folded tightly in front of his chest. He doesn't speak, only staring vacantly into the wall in front of him. He doesn't move. Brenda realizes, eventually, that he's probably waiting to see if she's alright before leaving.

Brenda feels she ought to say something. She coughs, testing the air before breaking the silence. "Thank you for your help…" she trails off, realizing she doesn't know his name."

"Clive," the boy says, finally showing mercy on her after several moments of awkward silence.

"Thank you, Clive," she says, amending her previous sentence. "I really appreciate it."

Clive shrugs again, looking away.

"I'm Brenda. Brenda Triton," Brenda says, pressing onwards. Now that someone else is here, she almost feels talkative "I'm here to visit a friend, but I… needed a few moments alone."

"Ah," says Clive, his frown relaxing a little. "I'm sorry."

"Yes, well…" Brenda trails away. Really, she should stop talking about herself. Clive is seemingly a patient, after all, and must have his own worries. Then, she realizes—shouldn't he be in a room, or at least accompanied by a nurse? "Are you a patient?" she asks hesitantly.

Clive's expression shifts very oddly, as if he doesn't know whether to smile or to cry. "Yes," he says, after a pause. "I just wanted to go for a walk." He shifts nervously in his chair, and Brenda's afraid that he's going to leave.

She can't let him go off by himself. He seems mature, but, still, he's just a little boy.

"Me too," she says with a smile. "Would you like to come with me? I was just going to get some coffee for my husband at the cafeteria." Clive looks uncomfortable, like he's about to say no, and she quickly continues. "I'd rather not be by myself right now."

Again, his guarded expression softens. "Well, I suppose. If it would be helpful."

"It would. I'll get you something too, once we're there."

"Don't trouble yourself. I'm not hungry." He blinks, then summons up a poor excuse for a smile. "But it's very nice of you to offer." He stands slowly, then offers her a hand. "I'll show you where the cafeteria is."

Brenda knows. She's been there before. But if he feels useful, he'll be less likely to leave her and get into trouble, won't he? "Lead the way," she says, following him down the hallway.

"The coffee isn't very good," Clive says, as they approach the cafeteria. "At least, that's what my friend says. Your husband would be better off with the tea. It's quite good."

"He only likes sweet teas." Brenda follows on Clive's heels as he weaves his way between tables. He seems to know his way around worryingly well. "Hershel is the one who likes tea."

The words slip out without thinking, but Clive barely reacts; something else has caught his attention. His face lights up, and, turning abruptly on his heel, he hurries, almost running, towards an elderly woman in a wheelchair. "You're feeling better today?" he asks breathlessly, grabbing her hand.

"Much better, my boy." The woman ruffles his hair. Despite her smile, even the effort that it took for her to lift her arm seems to be almost too much for her. "But what are _you_ doing out here? You're supposed to be in your room, aren't you?"

Clive looks back towards Brenda, grinning sheepishly. "I was helping this lady. She… she needs help carrying her tea."

Brenda can feel the older woman's eyes scrutinizing her. "We bumped into each other in the hall," she says, trying to defend herself. "I'm sorry if I'm doing something wrong; I know that he's a patient, but I didn't want him to be alone, and he offered to help me."

The older woman lets out a chuckle mixed with a sigh, shaking her head. "Nobody has the power to make this boy do what he's supposed to," she says with a tired smile. "Thank you for watching out for him."

"I don't need anyone to watch out for me," Clive says, his smile fading. "If you two want to discuss how troublesome I am, I'll leave you alone while I get the drinks. What should I get you, Ms. Triton?"

"A coffee, and… two teas." It's not as if Hershel will wake up before they arrive back, but, still… she'll drink the second tea later if nobody else will.

Clive turns toward the other lady. "And you, Miss Constance?"

"Tea as well, please, dear."

As Clive heads towards the cafeteria counter, 'Miss Constance' turns toward Brenda, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm not all that thirsty, really, but the poor boy lives to be useful."

"I can see that," nods Brenda, watching him go. She holds out her hand. "It's good to meet you. I'm Brenda Triton."

"Constance Dove." Ms. Dove's grip on her hand is far stronger than Brenda expected from someone who looks so frail. "I'm Clive's friend. I try to keep an eye on him whenever I can, since we're both frequent visitors to this awful place."

"I'm glad. That you watch out for him, I mean." Brenda keeps her eyes trained on Clive, watching him as he stands in line, a tray gripped tightly in his hands. He seems very sure of himself, moving through the line as smoothly as any adult. The observation makes Brenda uncomfortable. "Does anybody else watch out for him? Where are his parents?"

Ms. Dove's smile fades. "Well, he doesn't like to stay in any one place. The nurses should be watching out for him, but he slips away before they can blink. His parents…" She coughs, a fit that lasts several seconds, then starts again. "There was an accident a few months ago, and, well… they both..."

"Oh, no." Brenda's heart pangs. She doesn't know what else to say. Tears spring to her eyes, and she doesn't know if it's for Clive's sake, or if it's a mix between empathy for him, and her own grief at Claire's death and worry over Hershel. "That's… that's awful," she says, swiping at her eyes and fighting to keep her voice level.

Ms. Dove nods slowly. "I know. Although, I don't know the details, and it's not my place to tell you much more. If he wants you to know more, he'll tell you." She watches him fondly. "I first met him last month—he saw me drop something and ran to pick it up. We've been friends ever since. He's such a sweet boy, although he's shy at first; he's always so eager to help me. We like to draw blueprints and solve equations together—he'd be a fine engineer, if he put his mind to it."

Despite her shaky emotional state, the thought of Clive and Ms. Dove whiling away the hours solving equations puts a smile on Brenda's face. It reminds her of the puzzle group she, Clark, Hershel and Claire had formed during their university days. Those hours sitting together near the coffee shop, trying to outwit each other, hearing Claire laugh and Hershel chuckle and watching Clark threaten to tear out his hair in frustration, had been some of the happiest hours of her life.

She won't remember that those hours are gone forever.

"That's wonderful," she says, smiling towards Ms. Dove. "You take good care of him."

"Yes, well; I suppose I needed a friend as much as he did." Ms. Dove smiles absently. "But he needs more friends. He doesn't have any family left, after all. Are you going to be visiting here often? If you'd talk to him every now and then, my mind would rest a little bit easier."

"Yes. My friend, he…" Brenda stops. She doesn't want to think about how horribly Hershel was hurt, how he might…

"It's alright, dear." Ms. Dove lightly pats Brenda's arm; from anyone else, Brenda would be annoyed at the breach of privacy, but coming from her, it's comforting. "You don't need to tell me. I only want Clive to have more friends. I worry about him. He isn't well, even if he hides it."

"I'll look out for him," Brenda says evenly, trying to sound as reassuring as possible.

"Excuse me?"

Brenda blinks, looking up. Clive stands before them, a tray of drinks in his hand. "Here's your drink, Miss Constance," he says, handing a steaming cup to her. He looks toward Brenda with half-lidded, disapproving eyes. "I don't need you to worry about me," he says evenly. "I won't die if I'm left on my own."

Brenda blinks, trying to summon up a response, but Ms. Dove doesn't miss a beat. "We know, dear," she says calmly. "But we like to worry about our friends. Now. Are you going back to your room?"

Clive looks away. "I'm not ready yet."

"Do you want to come back with me, then?" Brenda bursts out. Something about the look in his eyes has her on edge; she gets the feeling that he'd do something unwise if he was left alone. "It'd be nice if you'd carry the drinks. And then I could introduce you to my husband; I'm sure you'd get along with him."

Clive blinks, then looks towards Ms. Dove, a searching look in his eyes. She nods towards him. "If you're not going to go back to your room, you might as well help this lady carry her things."

Clive nods slowly. "Well, alright. If you're fine on your own, Miss Constance."

"I'll be fine, my boy. You can tell me if anything exciting happens later on."

Brenda rises up from her seat. "Thank you for talking to me, Ms. Dove. It was nice to meet you."

"Just call me Constance. And it was nice to meet you too, Ms. Triton. I hope we'll be able to talk again."

"I'll see you soon, Miss Constance," Clive says, coming to stand next to Brenda. "Now, Ms. Triton, if you'd lead the way…"

"Yes, of course." Brenda starts off, winding her way through the cafeteria with far less finesse than Clive had earlier. She hopes that she remembers the way to the hospital room; it would be embarrassing to get lost in front of someone who seems to know this place inside and out.

They walk down the long winding halls, Brenda paying close attention to the landmarks and signs that she'd passed on the way here. Neither she nor Clive speaks; the only sounds are the vague beeping sounds that all hospitals have, which never come from any particular direction, and the occasional sound of a door closing, or a nurse's hurried footsteps.

Brenda can't stand the silence.

"So, Clive. How old are you?" she asks brightly, looking over her shoulder.

Clive looks up at her warily. "Ten. And you?"

It's awful how she has to think for a minute before answering. "Twenty-five," she says, after finally remembering. "Although I'll be twenty-six soon."

"Hm," says Clive, nodding absently. "And you're married?"

"Yes. My husband's name is Clark. He's quite the bookworm." Brenda's not quite sure how Clive started interrogating _her,_ and she'll turn the tables back soon enough. "Do you like books, Clive?"

"Some," he says carelessly. "You're here to visit a friend?"

He'd turned the tables back on her, and… she doesn't want to answer. "Yes," she says quietly.

"I'm sorry," Clive says again, echoing what he'd said to her before. His face is devoid of any emotion; it's impossible to know what he's thinking. "It must be very difficult."

"It… is." She searches desperately for something positive to say. "But… at least I have Clark, and the two of us… we're in this together." She sends a taut smile in Clive's direction. "I'm sure things will work out."

"Hm," Clive says again, and then, suddenly, before Brenda can blink, they've arrived at Hershel's room.

Clark doesn't move, seemingly not hearing them come in. It's not until Brenda coughs lightly that he stirs, jumping at the sound. "Oh, Brenda, it's you!" he says, a smile returning to his tired face. "And you've brought coffee!"

"Yes, thanks to the help of my assistant." Brenda grabs the coffee from Clive's tray, handing it to Clark.

Clark blinks, as if only just noticing Clive. An incredulous grin slowly spreads across his face. "Why, Brenda! You never told me that you had a little brother."

Clive stares blankly, but Brenda giggles. It's wonderful to hear Clark's awful jokes again. "Yes. I've been keeping him a secret all these years. Actually, this is Clive. He knows his way around this place quite well and offered to show me around."

"Pleased to meet you, Clive." Clark extends his hand.

Clive stares warily, then, shoving the tray into Brenda's hands, takes Clark's hand, shaking it awkwardly. "A pleasure."

"Really, though, Brenda," begins Clark, releasing Clive's hand. "It's remarkable how much you two look like each other. It's the eyes, I suppose. Are you sure you're not related?"

Now that Clark mentions it, Brenda takes a closer look at Clive. The sandy hair, the dark eyes, the snub nose—he really does look like her, doesn't he? "I suppose you're right," she says, smiling. "I never noticed before. I don't look at myself all that often."

Clive, seemingly uncomfortable with the attention, takes a few steps, as if trying to find a spot where he won't be stared at. Suddenly, his eyes widen. Brenda follows his gaze. Clive's eyes are locked on the hospital bed, where Hershel lies, bruised and broken. "I-is that… Professor Layton?" Clive stutters, looking desperately to Brenda.

"Y-yes," starts Brenda, surprised, but Clive's already run to the side of the bed. He stares in silence, for what seems like forever, his eyes surveying Hershel's many injuries. He's breathing quickly, and Brenda wants to rush to him to see if he's alright, but she holds herself back; he wouldn't appreciate being coddled. Finally, Clive turns back toward Brenda. His eyes are wide, shining with unshed tears. "Please," he whispers. "Tell me what happened to the professor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> This is an AU that's pretty close to my heart. It could wind up being quite long; if I have the stamina, I'd like to write this AU all the way up until when Unwound/Lost Future would take place. My main focus, though, is simply to give Clive lots of friends and family because that makes me happy.
> 
> I really appreciate the time you took to read this. Thank you so much!


	2. Small Comfort

"It's alright, Clive. He's going to be alright."

Clark speaks without thinking. He's surprised at how level his voice is, considering how panicked he feels, seeing the boy struggling to hold back tears.

_Please don't cry, please don't cry… what am I supposed to do?_

"He'll be alright," he says again, to fill the air, then points to an empty chair. "Sit down; you'll feel better then."

Clive obeys, blinking furiously. "B-but he looks so…" he starts, then trails away, hiding his face.

"Everything's going to be okay, Clive," says Brenda, coming to sit beside him. Clark lets out a sigh of relief. She's a natural; he'd nearly been paralyzed.

Brenda tentatively puts an arm around the boy's shoulder. When he doesn't react, she nods to herself, beckoning to Clark. Clark moves his chair closer towards them, trying to think of what to say. He himself doesn't even know what happened to Hershel, and trying to think of a way to explain it to the boy without entirely traumatizing him seems impossible. The idea of quiet, friendly Hershel having any enemies is ridiculous, so whoever did this to him couldn't have had revenge as their motivation. This had to have been a… a mugging, or something. Some thief must've gone too far when trying to make a getaway. Or maybe it was somehow an accident. No, no, that's ridiculous; there's no way this could be an accident… Clark's merely spitballing here; he wants an answer, and he can't know, not unless… until Hershel wakes up to tell them for himself.

"We don't know exactly what happened to him," says Brenda, mercifully saying what Clark had been helpless to explain. "He was found like this on the street a few days ago. The police are looking into it."

"Th-that's good." Clive's voice is still shaking; Clark can tell that the boy's straining to keep it from trembling any more than it already is. Slowly, the boy's hands against his face lose some of their tension, his fingers fanning open so his eyes are able to look between the cracks, but his hands don't leave his face. "I…I hope whoever did it..." He swallows, then spits out the next sentence. "I hope they _rot_ in jail."

Clark startles, and so does Brenda. They share a worried glance. Of course, Clark feels the same (even if he won't say out loud). His first instinct was to blame himself for what happened to Hershel, but he hopes that justice is served, and he's sure Brenda feels the same. But hearing something so venomous from someone so young is… disconcerting.

"How do you know Hershel, Clive?" asks Clark, hoping to change the subject, and hopefully, lighten the mood as well. "I'm sure he'd have told me if there was a child genius as one of his students, so…"

He's not sure how to finish the joke (or if that was even a joke at all).

Brenda rolls her eyes, but Clive doesn't seem to have noticed Clark's sorry attempt at humour. "I'm not his student," he says slowly. "I'm just… a fan."

"A fan?"

"Mm-hm." Clive nods slowly, not looking at anything in particular.

He's a fan of archeology? Clark brightens. Finally, something he can distract the boy with! "You like archeology, then? Or do you just like Hershel?" he says jokingly. "Because if it's the former, you're in luck. I happen to be studying some newly discovered ruins up in Misthallery. They could even be Azran; we're not quite sure yet, but we'll find out soon enough. If you have any questions, fire away!"

Clive blinks up at him. "I… hadn't thought much about archeology before."

Clark's heart sinks. "Oh…"

"But… it could be interesting." Clive taps his forehead thoughtfully. "It'd be nice to have something else to think about. I do engineering and maths with Miss Constance, but they're too easy. I… need things to think about."

Brenda smiles. "Well, Clark will certainly give you a lot to think about, if you let him get started."

"Yes…" Clark laughs hesitantly. "Don't get me started if you don't want me to ramble for an hour."

"You can." Clive keeps his eyes fixed on Hershel's prone form. "I'm going to be here for a very long time, so you can talk as long as you like."

"You'll be sorry, but alright." Clark fumbles for his briefcase, opening it, and pulling out a heavy tome. "Now. Let's start with the basics. Donald Rutledge, in his seminal work, _Ancient Histories,_ stated…"

* * *

"It's getting late, Clark."

Clark blinks. For the first time, he notices the orange sunset streaming through the hospital window. It felt like no time had passed at all. "Oh," he says sheepishly, closing the book. "How long have I been rambling on?"

"You've been _talking_ for at least two hours, I'd say. Maybe longer." Brenda laughs, reaching over and patting him on the shoulder. "But it wasn't rambling. We would've interrupted a long time ago if we minded. Right, Clive?"

Clive doesn't respond. His tired eyes are still trained on Hershel. Then he startles, blinking, before turning to Clark, an odd smile on his face. "Oh. Oh, yes. Thank you, Mr. Triton." He turns back toward Hershel. For a moment, Clark wonders if he really was boring the boy. His heart sinks. So much for being able to cheer him up, or be any use at all…

Suddenly, Clive speaks again. "I'd like to hear more, someday… if you have the time…" He trails away, sounding unsure of himself.  
An idea strikes Clark like a bolt from the blue. "Why not borrow the book?" Before Clive can protest, Clark thrusts it into his hands. "Return it whenever you like."

Brenda's face lights up. "Perfect. Then you can visit again when you're ready to return it. At least one of us will be here every afternoon and evening for… for the foreseeable future."

Clive slowly thumbs through the pages, nodding to himself. "If you don't mind…" he says slowly. "It's something to think about."

It's silly, perhaps, but Clark can't hide his excitement at the idea of pulling someone else into the world of archeology. "Well, Rutledge will give you a great deal of food for thought," he says, trying to appear at least somewhat calm. His mind's already coming up with potential questions that Clive might ask after reading the book, and corresponding potential answers that he could fire back at him. "Don't rush to return it," he says hurriedly. "You might as well enjoy reading it. I can do without it for a while."

"I'll return it tomorrow," Clive says without hesitation. "I'll have plenty of time to read it tonight."

Clive should be sleeping tonight, not reading, and Clark almost tells him so. Then, he thinks better of it. He barely knows the boy, after all, and really can't tell him what he can and can't do. (That, and Clark's stayed up all night reading more times than he can count. ) "If you take longer than that, don't worry about it," he says simply, giving the boy a smile.

"Thank you, but I'm sure it'll be done by tomorrow," Clive says evenly, slowly standing. Glancing up at the clock above the door, he holds the book to his chest, walking toward the door. "I've got to go now. The psychologist always makes it to my room by eight, so I need to be there in time. Goodbye. I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'll walk you back—" Brenda starts, beginning to stand but it's too late; Clive's already left the room. His rapid footsteps grow more and more distant as he moves down the hallway, until they fade away entirely.

The room feels suddenly very empty.

"I… I guess we should get going too," Brenda says, breaking the silence after a minute. "I didn't realize it was this late. I hope Lucille and Roland don't mind."

"Oh, they'll be fine," says Clark uncertainly, hoping that Hershel's parents will, in fact, be fine with how late they are; it was incredibly kind of them to let Clark and Brenda stay at their home, and they shouldn't take advantage of that by showing up at odd hours. "I told them we might not come there till the evening." It's evening already, but Brenda doesn't press the issue (thank goodness).

Clark slowly stands, and Brenda follows. Despite the two of them only arriving in London this afternoon, and despite the majority of their things still being in their car, the room's already a mess, books, Clark's many empty coffee cups, his thesis, and other sundry items strewn about the room. They both clean up hurriedly, stuffing their books into their bags. Clark's book bag is significantly lighter without _Ancient Histories_ inside. He hopes that Clive will like it. (Of course, the boy was just trying to be polite, he's sure. But still, he hopes it's enjoyable).

"Do you think he'll be back tomorrow after all?" Clark shoulders the book bag, casting a look toward Brenda.

"He might," Brenda replies absently. Her eyes seem unfocused. Clark bites back the hundredth "are you alright" that he wants to ask her. He's been asking her that so often over the past few days. (So often, and yet somehow, not enough).

They've both been in shock ever since hearing about Hershel, and they're both so tired. After all, they dropped everything in Misthallery and drove all day to get here. And yet… there's something else about her that's worrying Clark. It's probably nothing… she always says she's alright. But he's somehow still so anxious. _You're such a worrywart,_ she's said before, laughing, and she'd say it again if he asked her now. But still…

"I think he's going to be here for awhile." Brenda's words cut through Clark's thoughts "His parents, they…" She looks away. "Well, I don't know if it's true, but an older lady, Ms. Dove—Clive's friend, she said—she told me that something happened to them a few months ago. And Clive's been here ever since."

Clark stops. Clive's parents are…

Well, on second thought, that should have been obvious. A child that young wouldn't ordinarily be running around a hospital as if he owned the place (or, at least, Clark thinks so. He doesn't know anything about children…)

He feels awful. He should have been more considerate. He should have comforted the boy better. He should have—

"You didn't know," Brenda says calmly. "And I don't know for _sure,_ either. Clive didn't tell me; I only heard it from Ms. Dove. I think if he wanted sympathy, he would have asked for it. You don't need to feel bad."

"If his parents are dead, of course I feel bad," mutters Clark. Although, what makes him feel more awful than Clive's parents being dead is the fact that he doesn't feel as bad as he should. There's been so much that's happened in this past week, and learning about this boy's situation is just one more thing to worry about. As much as Clark cares, he just doesn't know what to do for the boy; he's already powerless in his own life situation, and he'd be even more powerless to do anything for a stranger.

But then again… talking to Clive had certainly been a nice distraction. He'd been so swept away in the joy of explaining something he loves to a willing listener that he'd almost forgotten about all of his worries. Maybe simply being someone to talk to will be enough to help—or, at least, it would be a start.

"Maybe we can help him by just… being around," he says, thinking out loud. "He'd probably just like somebody to talk to. A distraction. We could just make an effort to make him feel welcome if he does come back."

"That's what I was thinking." Brenda smiles. "He might like a friend or two. Someone to do something with that isn't related to whatever he's going through. So none of your usual prying, if you please."

Clark can't hide a smile. "Fine then." He shrugs, sticking his nose in the air. "I won't ask him about anything."

"Oh, Clark." Brenda giggles. "No need for logical extremes."

"If you insist," sighs Clark, his voice dripping with mock-disappointment. "I _suppose_ I'll ask him about what he thinks of Donald Rutledge, if I must. Although the same goes for you, too, you know," he goes on, pointing accusingly towards Brenda. "Now's not the time to be prying into his family history, trying to figure out if he's your long-lost cousin."

"Cousin, this time? I thought he was my little brother." Brenda laughs again, and they fall into a comfortable silence as they exit the hospital doors, heading towards the car. Clark wishes he didn't have to drive; he's just so _tired._ Thankfully, he's not so worn-down that he can't indulge in a joke here and there, and he's glad that Brenda's feeling the same way. But truthfully, he's not sure how he's going to manage all of this. His thesis deadline is coming up, and who knows how long Hershel is going to be in this condition? It could be weeks, or months, or… or what if…

"I'll drive." Brenda slips into the drivers' seat before Clark can say a word. "It's been a long day, hasn't it?" Her smile is thin and exhausted. "Everything will seem better in the morning."

Hesitantly, Clark sits in the passenger's seat, nodding to himself, trying to convince himself to believe Brenda's words of wisdom. Everything will be better in the morning. Except it won't.

His thesis will be unfinished. His work in Misthallery will still be waiting for him. He'll still be (perhaps irrationally) worried about Brenda. Hershel will still be in a coma. And now there's Clive to worry about… even if he's not really their responsibility, Clark feels responsible anyway.

"I hope so," he says quietly. "We'll see."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for taking so long on this! Longfics really aren't my strong suit (obviously...) Clark is a bit of a difficult character for me to write, since I haven't written him much before, but I hope he turned out alright here. I may wind up making this story a bit more like a set of connected oneshots after the next few chapters, just to get the plot moving along a little more quickly.
> 
> Thank you so much your support, especially to those who comment. You make me excited to continue writing. I'll really try hard to get the next chapter done faster.
> 
> Thank you so much!


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